


Why don't you do right...

by YoursTruly (Lyscey)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, Female Sherlock Holmes/Female John Watson, Femslash, Sherlock imitating Jessica Rabbit, Sort-of crossover, but not really, fem!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:13:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/pseuds/YoursTruly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John follows Sherlock to a lush nightclub to apprehend a kidnapper and gets surprised, heroic, and fucked. In that order.<br/>Porn with a bit of plot for SlightlyConfused (geekallthethings on Tumblr) in the Exchangelock AU 2014 exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why don't you do right...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlightlyConfused](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlightlyConfused/gifts).



> SlightlyConfused said she wanted Femslash so I started thinking about my headcanons for a female Sherlock. My first thought was that she would have a voice like Kathleen Turner, at which point I imagined a dark haired, angular Jessica Rabbit and my brain short circuited. This is the result. I hope you like it! 
> 
> This work does contain some discussion of gender issues and misgendering (accidental, not intentional or for the purpose of bullying).
> 
> Unbeta'd or Britpicked. Please forgive any mistakes.

Joanna Watson gets misgendered a lot these days. It never happened when she was young and her mother kept her hair long and straight and shiny. (Mrs. Watson was obsessed with her daughter's honey blonde hair and loved to do all it’s maintenance herself, especially after putting up with a loud, rowdy, dirty boy like Joanna's brother, Harry.) It never happened at uni, where Joanna was short but slender and had the time to do things like braid her fine hair and wear soft, pastel toned make-up. It happened for the first time six days after arriving in Afghanistan. Joanna had become so frustrated with heat, sweat, and her seeming inability to get enough sleep and still report on time with her long hair in a regulation up-do, she took a pair of surgical scissors to her own scalp. The result was choppy, a bit uneven, but surprisingly flattering. At least she thought so until the following morning, when a passing Corporal threw her a salute and greeted her 'Sir' instead of 'Mam'. That had felt very odd indeed.

It bothered her at first, but she learned very quickly that insisting on 'mam' slowed down response times and didn't win her much respect. She decided to embrace it, even adopting the nickname 'John' from the female nurses, who mostly cropped their own hair as well. It wasn’t usually done, surgeons spending so much time with the nurses, especially as she outranked all but two of them, but they seemed to have a ‘women stick together out here’ mentality and in the end she was grateful for their support. John's favorite surgical nurse even became her best friend there and insisted on cutting John's hair for her from then on. She knew everyone on that post assumed she was a lesbian. She made up for it by sucking a lot of cock.

John had been an active bisexual since she was 18. She had always thought of herself as truly without a preference (attracted to both men and women equally and often), but something about the reframing of her self esteem around her new look, surroundings, and purpose there made her feel like she had something to prove to the men. It was never the other doctors; they were too arrogant, competitive and some of the worst offenders when it came to sexism. Not patients either. Not that she was entirely sure she would, or could, be held accountable out here, but she truly believed it was best and she kept her ethical standards. It was mostly soldiers on their way to somewhere else, a few helicopter pilots who delivered supplies and wounded, and, once, a US Navy Seal waiting for the next transport to a near by airfield. Encounters were generally one-offs, usually just fooling around and giving head, primarily because it's easier to improvise a barrier out of miscellaneous medical supplies for oral than vaginal sex. Although, every once in a while a commando would pass through, fresh from somewhere civilized, with a box of condoms burning a hole in his pocket. John had never been so enthusiastic about penetration before. She fucked exclusively men for the two years she was in Afghanistan, including the night before she volunteered for the patrol that would send her back home nearly crippled.  

Which is why she finds it so surprising to be this strongly attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock never gets misgendered. She's tall and thin, dark haired but fair complected, with ocean colored eyes. Even dressed in the high waisted, wide legged trousers she prefers, paired with men's shirts and cufflinks, her figure swallowed by that huge, wool Belstaff,  and without a stitch of makeup, everyone can see Sherlock is all woman. She has that easy going sort of femininity Johns has always admired. Excellent bone structure from generations of good breeding, sharp features and public school posture, Sherlock is classically pretty and doesn’t have to, or really bother to, work for beauty. The nails on the ends of her long fingers are short and often bitten, never painted but always clean. Her hair is naturally wavy and soft; in the humidity it acts up, frizzes slightly and pulls up into ringlets. Sherlock hates it but, if anything, it makes her look even more like a porcelain doll. John had been instantly besotted the first time she saw it.

Sherlock is a lesbian, by which John is delighted and about half the male population of London is openly disappointed. John’s even noticed Anderson, for all his vitriol, giving Sherlock a few appreciative glances when he thinks no one is looking. Sherlock finds this endlessly amusing, while John flexes her knuckles and sets her jaw in a confusing combination of annoyance and wry fondness. Which, really, just about sums up their whole relationship.

John is feeling something similar right now as she reads the 12 texts Sherlock has sent her over the last hour. They range from ‘ **Am going to require you horizontal immediately after arriving home** ’, to ‘ **Break in case. Thoughts on swallowing enough blood after broken nose to induce vomiting?** ’, and finally ‘ **Meet me at attached GPS coordinates at 8:30 PM. Be armed.** ’

“Shit,” John mutters on her way out the clinic door. She has just enough time to take the tube to the flat, change and pick up her gun, and take a taxi to wherever the hell Sherlock is now. On the walk to the tube stop she sends a text to Sherlock: ‘ **What’s this about?** ’ She knows better than to hold her breath waiting on Sherlock to fill her in, so she ducks into the underground and heads for Baker Street.

Her phone vibrates immediately when she emerges again. A text from Sherlock: ‘ **Blackmail. Kidnapping. Need to stake out club and identify the man who picks up the drop. Will know him when I see him.** ’

‘ **How will I find you?** ’

‘ **Go in. Reservation. Watch my signals.** ’

Following Sherlock’s lead as usual, then. As John unlocks the front door she spares a moment to think about how mad this is before climbing the stairs and heading to their bedroom and the pistol tucked into the bottom drawer, underneath the uniform and tee-shirts she can’t bring herself to throw away. She’s changed and out the door on Sherlock’s trail in 15 minutes.

*****

The club is in what must have once been a warehouse; a wooden frame tacked together from untreated four by four's with sheet metal laid over it, and a large sliding door with a single bouncer checking ID's. John is her usual mix of pleased and annoyed to be carded and accepts his stamp on the back of her hand; a pink cartoon elephant. Stepping over the threshold and onto the wooden floor is like walking through a portal to the American 1920's. It's been redone from bottom to top in blonde, oiled wood and brass, including the art nouveau inspired bar. All the round, Shaker style tables have plush, claw-footed chairs facing the stage, and a tall, mocha-skinned beauty in a cocktail dress and cream coloured fishnets walks gingerly between them with a cigarette tray. Bus boys in tuxedos are picking up stacks of plates and glasses in what seems to be the lull after dinner service and before the cocktail hour entertainment.

John scans the room for likely suspects for Sherlock’s bag man and accidentally catches the attention of the hostess. She glides over on a pair of low heels. With flowers in her swept up hair and her gausy sheath dress shifting and clinging as she walks, she looks like she’s stepping out of a Privat-Livemont poster.

“Do you have a reservation this evening?” she asks, sweet but firm.

“Can you check under Watson, please?”

“Ah, of course, Doctor Watson. Syrah had a specific table held for you. Please, allow me to escort you. May I take your coat?”

Syrah? John tries not to let confusion show on her face as she gives the room another quick once over, looking for Sherlock. She’s nowhere to be seen and John thinks of the pistol tucked into her belt at the small of her back, smiles to cover her pause, and says, “I think I’ll keep it, thanks. Bit chilled from the walk.”

“Of course. This way please.”

She shows John to a table on the right side of the elongated apron of the stage. There are three chairs, and John chooses the middle one so that most of the room will still be in her field of vision. She has a feeling no one will be joining her anyway. Sherlock wouldn’t be so obvious herself, or so inconsiderate to sit John down with her suspect without any warning.

A waitress saunters over with a tray of drinks and leans down to offer John one. She’s dressed similarly to the cigarette girl, but in a shimmery, old-copper colour that’s a stunning contrast to her milky skin and strawberry hair.

“I have whiskey on the rocks and vodka martinis on my tray at the moment, or I can take a drink order to the bar for you.”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

“Are you sure? Might take the edge off while you wait for you, ah, companion.” She smiles like she knows something John doesn’t and, considering John’s never seen her or this club before, she just might.

“Choose for me then,” John says, reaching for some notes in her jacket pocket.

"Already taken care of Dr. Watson. Enjoy the show." The waitress sets the sweating tumbler in front of John, gives her a little wink, and turns on the balls of her feet to walk back the way she came.

Lights start to dim in the dining room. John’s getting nervous now. She’s supposed to be following Sherlock’s lead but Sherlock never said how to find her. How is she going to see Sherlock’s signal in a dark room?

A huge, white spot swings onto the grand curtain and a woman begins singing from off stage as her long, pale leg slips out from the center of the curtain, tipped by a shining, red, stiletto pump.

“ _You had plenty money, 1922…_ ”

Her voice is beautiful, and vaguely familiar, but John’s too distracted to enjoy it. The number continues as the leggy brunette shoulders her way through the curtain into view and John is fairly certain she's having a heart attack.

Sherlock has extensions in her hair that bring it flowing down in waves past her shoulders, more make up on than John's ever seen in their whole flat, and wearing a red sequined dress that looks like it was painted on. She’s using it to her advantage too, swaying her way across the stage to press her back to the proscenium and let the friction as she slides down it muss her hair. She locks eyes with John and John snaps her jaw shut with an audible click.

“ _Why don’t you do right, like some other men do?_ ”

Sherlock’s speaking voice is gorgeous to John’s ears, but most people find it gravely and too deep for a woman. The word ‘husky’ has been used more than once, and John has to admit it suits Sherlock, right down to her breathy, chest-deep laugh. Of course Sherlock knows how to use it to her advantage in any situation and is a master of all sorts of accents and inflections, but John’s never heard her actually change her voice before. She’s certainly never heard Sherlock sing. It’s at least an octave higher than John knows her to sound, smooth and unwavering in pitch. Just like the rest of her, it’s perfection. John is mesmerized.

The feeling dissipates slightly when a man sitting a bit too close to the stage reaches out a hand as if he’s about to touch Sherlock’s ankle and she kicks him soundly on the chin. Seemingly unfazed, she continues on past him without missing a beat. The airy sense of awe in John’s mind is quickly replaced with the heavy feeling of lust in her gut.

“ _...you wouldn’t be wandering now from door to door._ ”

John stares as Sherlock steps down from the stage onto one of the tables and accepts a hand to steady her to a chair and then the floor. She turns around to snatch the gentleman’s handkerchief from his jacket pocket, wipes his chin with it, then stuffs it into his open mouth and presses him back into his chair with a hand on his chest. Sherlock turns again and immediately engages John’s eyes. She smiles. The rest of the room fades away.

Sherlock walks over, swinging her hips and shoulders to great effect, and plants herself in John’s lap. She runs her hands up the sides of John’s open coat and onto her neck, still locked onto her eyes. One hand slides into the short hair on the back of John’s head and pulls sharply, just enough to get some attention. John let’s Sherlock swivel her head to the right and point it at another table, the only other table in the club with only one guest. Sherlock leans in toward John’s ear and softens her voice.

“ _Get outta here. Get me some money too._ ”

The context is a little strange but the message is clear enough: That’s our mark. Follow him. With that, she stands and lifts herself onto the stage, makes her way gracefully to her feet, and saunters back upstage, where the curtain closes behind her.  

After Sherlock’s out of sight, it’s a bit easier for John to shake herself back into awareness of the room. She looks over to the suspect to see him tossing some notes onto the table and preparing to leave. John tosses back what’s left of her whiskey (at least half water) and gets up to follow him. He doesn’t go far, just out the front door, past two other large metal buildings, and into the alley between a warehouse and a stack of shipping containers. John can hear Sherlock’s voice, her real voice, at the other end of the little passageway and doesn’t like the idea of a potential kidnapper standing between her and her girlfriend. She walks quietly past the opening and around the containers so she can put herself between Sherlock and the bag man.

Most of the actual conversation in is French, but the tone is suggestive enough for John to guess what's going on. Sherlock is bluffing that the bag she carries is full of money and trying to negotiate for the life of a kidnapped young woman. The longer it goes on the more upset Sherlock gets, which makes John even more jumpy than usual. It seems like Sherlock is trying to get the location of the girl before handing over what must be an empty duffel bag and only succeeding in making the man sent to retrieve it angry. John listens as the argument escalates until Sherlock is feigning tears and the wouldbe bag man is striding toward her in impatience. In a fraction of a second John has her gun drawn, held solidly in her two hands, and swinging from over her shoulder to connect with the man's elbow. With his arms drawn up against his body in pain it's easy for her to swing again split his lip against the barrel of her pistol. He stumbles back and raises his head enough to see John, and the length of her Browning between them. Before she can react again he turns and runs in the direction he came, only to be blocked by the screeching entrance of a police cruiser. John can see Lestrade through the windshield before he flips on the head lamps and light bar as more cars arrive. With a wall of Met officers in front of him and John behind him, the man raises his hands haltingly above his head (fractured elbow, John thinks) and allows himself to be walked to a car bent over the hood while he's searched and handcuffed. John tucks her gun away, assuming Sherlock with want to stay and watch, if not bully her way into running the show outright, but Sherlock grabs John by the hand and drags her back through the slim passages and into the back door of the club. They walk quickly down a long hallway and through a door with a hand painted “Guest” on it. As soon as the door closes behind them John finds herself pressed up against it and the long lines of Sherlock’s body in that impossible dress as close to hers as physically possible. John’s hands go to Sherlock’s hips on instinct, starting a full body roll up and into the soft figure in front of her, starting at the hips and ending with the lifting of her chin in anticipation of a kiss. Sherlock does not disappoint. In fact, Sherlock’s movements are almost more demanding here than John has ever felt her. Her lips are soft but her tongue is firm and not a bit tentative. Her fingers in John’s hair are warm and flexing slightly, her thumbs rubbing deftly at John’s earlobes. Going straight for the erogenous zones, then. She bites Sherlock’s upper lip in retaliation.

By the time they pull away a few centimeters they’re both panting and John's mouth is sticky and shiny from Sherlock’s lip gloss.

“You’re glorious. God, why are you not dressed like this all the time?”

“Impractical. Besides, judging by your reactions tonight, you’d never get any work done.”

“Sod the work, I’ve got better things to do.”

John reaches for the thigh high slit in Sherlock’s gown but Sherlock has her wrist before she can get her hand on skin. Over the course of their relationship Sherlock has perfected a signature move to both let John know what she wants and get it, so John’s not started by being spun like a dancer and pressed to the door again, this time with her forehead, clavicles, and ribs flush against it.

“Oh, yes. _Sherlock_.”

“ _You_ , John Watson, are glorious. The way you look at me sometimes… Not just like this, but on cases, out in the world, in front of other people like you don’t care what they think of you for loving me. I want to make you feel that way. Like there are no other women in the world.”

Sherlock has gotten very good at undoing John’s belt and flies blind while licking and nipping at the back of her neck. In a heartbeat John is twisting and shimmying her hips to help Sherlock get her trousers and knickers down around her knees. At first, Sherlock just cups her hand and rests it between John's thighs, just the touch of delicate skin, almost no pressure at all. It makes John squirm and whimper in anticipation. This is John's favorite thing to do with Sherlock, and Sherlock knows it. She has long, clever fingers and wide palms with a pronounced heel, absolutely perfect for fingering. Sherlock likes to draw it out, tease a bit, revel in the pleasure of making John feel good.

John hears the sticky sound of Sherlock peeling away her press-on nails.

Making a 'V' with her four fingers, Sherlock caresses John's outer lips, the tendons and muscles of her groin, presses the pad of her thumb into John's perineum. After a moment, she presses her fingers together, trapping John's slick and sensitive labia and citoris between them and sqeezing. John can't help the mewling cry that comes up from her throat.

"Please. Sherlock, _please_."

Sherlock chuckles against her neck and licks the shell of her ear again, but complies. She massages John's clit briefly with the pad of her middle finger before sliding down the length of her and pressing it just barely inside. John tries to rock her hips back but Sherlock's other hand is pressing sweetly on her back, just above her tail bone. Her next instinct is to bend her knees and sink down on Sherlock's probing finger but her trousers and pants are bunch so that she can't move them. John is stuck like that, with Sherlock just barely inside her, grasping desperately for the moment she always finds during sex with Sherlock; the moment she loses herself in the sensation and in her mind they are one flesh.

Sherlock's finger circles, twists, pulls gently back and down, all the while keeping up the massage on John's perineum. She's stretching John, gathering her natural wetness and spreading out and around, getting John ready for the three (maybe four) fingers she wants to put in her. John doesn't usually like it rough unless they're at home with a nice, smooth dildo. Her favorite is glass, with a plump, round head that she always warms in her own mouth before giving to Sherlock to fuck her with. Normally, Sherlock would wait, but something about tonight must have her more worked up than usual, because she's holding her middle and ring fingers close together and twisting them inside to the first knuckle before she's fully penetrated John even once.

John is panting now, anticipating the thrusts that aren't coming. "More, Sherlock. Please. God, please fuck me."

She can feel Sherlock shifting her weight behind her, letting more of it sit where her chest is pressed to John's back. She can feel Sherlock folding her fingers together and bringing her pelvis forward so the wrist of the hand inside John is cradled in her hip crease. When the first thrust finally comes, it's three stacked fingers and has the force of Sherlock's considerable lumbar strength behind it.

It's exquisite. John's cry is loud and high pitched and she grinds her sweaty forehead against the door where she would push face into the pillows if they were in bed. Something about that thrust must flip a switch in Sherlock, because now she's off, quickly setting a steady, hard rhythm. After only a few thrusts John is matching her and the moment she's been waiting for is there: only she, Sherlock, and the friction and motion between them are tangible. They're the only consciousness in a vast void and where the only sensation the exists is pleasure. She can't hear herself moan, she's only vaguely aware of Sherlock's murmured encouragement and praise. John barely registers the stretch as Sherlock flexes her fingers and insinuates her little finger into John with the rest before the black void in her head turns bright white; a full spectrum reversal. A supernova in her limbic system.

Sherlock's fingers leave her vagina immediately and resume their gentle caressing of her labia and clitoris. Drawing the orgasm out, amplifying the fluttery feeling of the aftershocks. She brings John down slowly, just like she likes, until all the pleasure is wrung from her body and every nerve ending is throbbing with her pulse.

"Sherlock. _Fuck_."

"Shh, darling," Sherlock soothes, her wet hand coming to rest on the slight swell of John's lower belly. "When I get you home, I'm going to lay you out in bed and straddle your chest. Let you pleasure me with your mouth for as long as you can stay awake. Don't worry, we're not done for the night. But first, I want to be out of this dress and home in our bed where I feel like myself. Can you wait that long, John? Would you like to do that for me?"

"Anything," John signs.

"Good. Wonderful. Be a dear, love, and unzip me."


End file.
